


You'll Never Get To Heaven (If You're Scared Of Getting High)

by delires



Series: Chav!verse [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A casually mutual proposal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Never Get To Heaven (If You're Scared Of Getting High)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of 'Burning Bright'. Thank you to paperflower86 for the graffiti tag!

They go to a Starbucks, because it is American. Arthur hates the coffee there, but he is making a point. He sulks over his latte. Eames has some revolting sugar-filled concoction, covered in whipped cream. He is doodling on the back pages of Arthur’s moleskine, which Arthur has begun to leave blank for precisely this purpose. It is better that there be something to keep Eames entertained when they are in polite company; it keeps him out of trouble.

“If we still lived in California, I could drive us down to Disneyland right now,” Arthur says. “You’d love it. You could ride the teacups until you puke.”

Eames reaches for his drink and slurps down a mouthful of cream. “You never offered to take me to Disneyland before,” he says. 

Arthur resists the urge to lean over with his napkin and wipe the cream from Eames’s top lip. “I meant to.”

“There’s one in Paris, though, innit. We could hit that up.”

“No. That one’s shit. All the robots speak French. It’s not the same.” 

Eames looks up from whatever he is doodling behind his folded arm. He licks his lips, the pink tip of his tongue chasing the smears of cream. “Who was the one being naughty with big multinational companies and getting themselves stalked by hitmen? Weren’t me, bruv,” he says.

“It could just have easily been you.” Arthur takes a sip of his totally flaccid latte. “And Cobol was Dom’s fault, anyway. Not mine.”

“Aww, pengting. You’re always the martyr,” Eames says. There is a grin starting to edge across his mouth and the sight of those crooked teeth always makes it impossible for Arthur to hold on to a scowl, especially now, when there are still traces of cream at the corners of Eames’s lips.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “The universe knows I can take it, though.”

“That’s true. And you do take it very gracefully.” Eames runs his foot along Arthur’s calf, beneath the table, where Arthur cannot see the sneaker dragging creases into his pants leg. 

Arthur has a different urge then, to lunge across the table and lick up every last bit of cream from Eames’s mouth, swallow it down and keep on going. He calms the impulse with another mouthful of coffee.

Eames has turned back to his scribbling. He is wearing one of his favourite caps, which is worn threadbare in patches along the brim and has the words ‘Tap Out’ emblazoned across the front. That hat almost got lost in the move. They had spent half a day searching for it, when they were supposed to be putting together contingency plans for the hypothetical event of their being traced back to London. Eames was on the verge of booking a flight back to LAX, _swear down_ , when Arthur had found the hat crushed underneath Jay-Z’s ample rump, in the corner of the sofa where the dog was sleeping off the journey. They had christened the new kitchen after that, in celebration, and gotten the countertops good and dirty.

It turns out that being on the run with Eames is a whole lot better than being on the run with Dom. Being on the run with Eames doesn’t really feel like being on the run at all. Arthur complains about coming back to the UK, but that’s all bullshit. He doesn’t actually care where he’s living. He’s still got what’s important, not like last time. 

Eames is concentrating hard on his doodling. Arthur stares at his face for a long time and then says, “I wish you had let me come with you, back then. Right at the start when we had to split up.”

“Why?”

“Because you told me that Dom would look after me, and did he fuck.”

Eames smiles, eyes still on the scribbling of his pen. “I’ll admit that was an error of judgement on my part. Poor old Domsky. He seemed so reliable.”

“Seriously, though. I don’t like to think that we missed time,” Arthur says.

For a moment there is only the clatter of the baristas and the mellow chords of smooth jazz. Then, Eames sucks his tongue thoughtfully over his teeth and says, “Man, I wouldn’t change it, though.” 

“Morocco was that great, huh?” 

“Nah, bruv. I mean I wouldn’t want to go all Marty McFly and meddle, you get me? I wouldn’t want to do anything to risk the way things turned out. With you.”

Eames looks up, meets Arthur’s gaze and this time the urge is too strong for Arthur to do anything about it. He can’t help himself. He says, “I sort of feel like I could propose to you right now. But that would be completely stupid. Wouldn’t it?”

Arthur can feel how tight the smile is on his face. There is a nervous hammering in his chest, which is crazy, because he doesn’t get nervous around Eames, ever. But that all dissolves as Eames smiles slowly and then turns Arthur’s moleskine around to reveal his doodling. 

  


 

The graffiti tag is made up of an intertwined ‘A’ and ‘E’. Their shapes are sharp and loose and undeniable. In a crazy rush of blood to the head, Arthur thinks it would make a pretty awesome design for a tattoo. 

“If you don’t,” Eames says, “swear down I’m about to.”

Arthur is positive that his heart skips a beat. He tries to keep himself sensible and composed as he says, “Shall we just form a casually mutual agreement?”

“A casually mutual agreement to get married?” When Arthur nods, Eames grins and holds out one hand to Arthur above the table. “Sounds like the way we do things, blud.”

“Innit,” Arthur says, and hi-fives Eames. As their palms slap together, Eames slips his fingers between Arthur’s and grips tight. 

“Shake on that,” he says, and they do, a brisk pump of a handshake. “I’ll hold you to this, you know.” 

“Hold away,” Arthur says, making it sound like a dare. 

“Oh yeah? I’m gonna have the most blingin’ ring you ever seen. Like a motherfucking spotlight, man. Right here.” Eames wriggles his fingers back and forth to demonstrate.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“Nah, pengting. You gotta have something well swank.” The brush of Eames’s thumb against Arthur’s cheekbone is rough and familiar. Arthur lets himself lean into the touch, just a little. 

“We should celebrate,” he says.

“Shame we can’t go Disneyland, though, innit.”

“How about you to take me home and fuck me instead,” Arthur says, and Eames grins at him. 

“Can’t get that on the teacups.” 

Arthur grins back. “You sure can’t.”

They have somehow managed to edge closer and closer to each other, bit by bit, across the table. It is not that much further to lean before Arthur can taste the creamy sweetness of Eames’s mouth.


End file.
